The light in Mom’s room was off, her door pulled almost shut. It squeaked on the hinges when Annie pushed it open and the sniffling stopped. The smell of her mom’s paints filled her nostrils, a comforting smell.
“Mom?”
“What is it, honey?” She sounded like she had an awful cold.
Thunder cracked, rattling the windows. Annie didn’t like storms. They were loud and scary. She crept closer to the bed. The wood floor was cold on the bare balls of her feet, and her toes felt like ice cubes.
When she reached the bed, she climbed in, and her mom pulled her close, tucking her into her soft belly. Annie’s head sank into her dad’s pillow, and his musky smell filled her nose. The words she’d heard earlier echoed in her head.
“He didn’t mean it, Mom.” She’d closed her bedroom door, but she could still hear her father’s cruel, calm words. Then the front door had slammed, and the crying had started. Annie’s tummy had been aching ever since.
“Oh, honey, I’m afraid he did.” Her mom smoothed her hair, sniffled again.
Annie was sure her mom was wrong. Daddies weren’t supposed to leave. They were supposed to come home from work and call you princess and feed the horses. They were supposed to tickle your belly and help you with the hard puzzles and put you on their shoulders so you could see the parade.
But what if Mom was right? What if he didn’t come back? What if . . . “Doesn’t he love us anymore?”
The ache in Annie’s tummy spread all through her body.
“He does love you, sweetie, very much.”
“See? He’ll come back. He was just mad.” But he hadn’t sounded mad. Just flat and empty.
Her mother’s breath was a shuddery sigh. “Don’t go getting your hopes up, honey. It only hurts when you’re wrong.”
Sometimes grown-ups didn’t make sense. “If Daddy loves us, then he has to come back.” She was sure of it.
“Oh, Annie, it doesn’t always work that way.”
“Why, Mom? Why would he leave us if he loves us?”
Her mom pulled Annie tighter, wrapped her arms around her middle. “Because, baby. That’s the trouble with cowboys. They’re always leaving.”
Annie let the words sink in, frowning. Her daddy was the best cowboy ever. Was that why he’d left? She said no more but sank into her mom’s arms and eventually drifted off to sleep.
Her mom must’ve been right, because her dad had never returned, not even to say good-bye. There were a few phone calls and postcards, just enough to keep hope alive. Just enough to hurt.
After the divorce, Annie’s mom had brought one cowboy after another into their lives, had married three of them, only to have them leave in a matter of months. By the time her mom had passed, and Annie and Sierra had gone to live with their grandpa, she knew for a fact her mom had been right: cowboys left.
Now Annie turned to her other side away from the annoying hands of the clock. Only when she heard Sierra come in for the night did she allow herself to drift off.
And the next day when Sierra told her Sutter had gone back to whatever rock he’d crawled from, Annie breathed a sigh of relief. At least he’d left before he did any real damage.
Dear Undecided,
A relationship rooted in friendship can grow to be the hardiest of them all.
10
Annie’s day had been long and stressful. She’d started at the O’Neils’ with a jiggy palomino that refused to walk. After that she’d checked on Mayor Wadell’s four-month-old filly. Wadell didn’t seem to understand that the filly’s kicking problem would require more than one visit.
She’d finished up her afternoon at Travis and Shay’s. He’d acquired a three-year-old abused quarter horse. They’d gotten nowhere with the gelding after four months of work. This was the kind of case that strained Annie the most. Not the fact that such horses were unpredictable or aggressive, but that their gentle souls had been wounded so heinously, so needlessly. Nothing raised her dander like a horse owner who took out his anger on innocent animals or neglected to learn proper handling.
She was just finishing up with the horse when Midge called. The editor got right down to business.
“Annie, we’ve received some feedback on your column already. I’m afraid it’s not as good as we’d hoped.”
Annie leaned against the stall door. “What do you mean?”
“Some of our readers thought you were off base with Betrayed in Billings. They thought the reader shouldn’t write him off so easily.”
“You know people are more likely to be vocal when they disagree. There were probably a hundred who agreed for each one who wrote.”
“You may be right.”
“I’m sure I am, but I’ll keep it in mind. You can depend on me, Midge. I won’t let you down.”
After they hung up, Annie finished up with the quarter horse and headed toward her truck. Shay approached, sporting a low ponytail. Baby Austin was perched on her hip, gnawing on his slobbery fingers.
“What’s wrong?” Shay asked.
Annie thought about brushing off the question but filled her in on Midge’s call instead.
“Did you read the column?” Annie asked.
“I did. I thought your answer was fine. It was one of those situations—could’ve gone either way.”
“Well, I’d better figure it out. With Sierra out of work, I need this job.”
“Hang in there. I’m sure it was just a few complainers. The vast majority probably agree with you; they just don’t take the time to write.”
“Hope so.” Annie gave Austin a kiss on his chubby cheek. “Gotta run. Tell Travis I said hello.”
She waved bye as she pulled down the drive. Just when she was ready for her day to be over, she had to go to Dylan’s house. She had to press him harder this time, make sure they were arriving at the right answer.
She found Braveheart much the same as he’d been the week before. He bolted from his stall and stumbled, but he let her approach so long as she kept to his sighted side. She walked the boundaries with him, talking constantly.
After working with him awhile, she led one of Dylan’s gentle mares into the pasture with the gelding and retreated to the fence to watch.
The sun was going down over the Gallatin Range, casting the mountains in muted shades of purple. A wind cut across the valley, sending a shiver across her flesh, and she crossed her arms against the chill. She took a deep whiff of pine, hay, and the earthy scent of rain, then let out her breath as she watched the horses.
A few minutes later, when a drizzle began to fall, she put the animals away for the night. Dylan had watched her working most of the evening but had slipped into the house awhile ago. She was already dreading the column, and though Sierra’s cowboy had left, Annie’s frustration with Dylan had not.
She shut the gate to Braveheart’s stall and headed toward her truck for her folder, then made a dash for the house as a bucket load of rain fell from the sky. She was drenched by the time she reached the porch. She knocked on the door, pushing her wet hair from her face. Thunder cracked, and she jumped just as Dylan opened the door.
“You’re soaked.” He pulled her in, his hand warm and firm on her arm, his scent filling her nostrils. “I’ll get a towel.”
Annie closed the door, pulled off her boots, then waited on the rug. The room was surprisingly cozy with its hardwood floor, braided rugs, and stone fireplace. Framed pictures, mostly old black-and-white shots, filled the mantel.
“Here you go,” Dylan said, his voice lower than she remembered. He handed her a thick beige towel.
“Thanks.” Annie dried her arms and face and soaked the moisture from her hair.
“Wrap up in this.” He handed her a quilt and tossed the wet towel over a rocking chair as he left again. She watched him go, admiring the way his T-shirt clung to his shoulders, the way his damp hair curled at his nape. She couldn’t deny he was nice to look at.
A moment later he returned with a hot mug of coffee. His
fingers brushed hers as she took it, and she pretended not to feel the shock of electricity that zinged up her arm.
“You’re tough to stay mad at, Dylan.”
He smiled, his dimples showing up. “That’s what I like to hear. Have a seat. Warm enough? I can get a fire going.”
He already had—he just didn’t know it. And if she were smart, she’d stick to the porch. But the thunder cracked again, making the light fixture overhead rattle, and she reminded herself she could handle Dylan Taylor just fine.
“That’s okay.” She sat in the recliner, leaving him the sofa, and opened her folder. “Braveheart is getting along okay. I put your mare in the field with him awhile to see how he did.”
“What for?”
“Sometimes another horse will step in to guide and protect the blind one. You can introduce other horses into the pasture with him one at a time, but watch him when you do. If he gets bronc-y, it’s a bad mix.”
“Gotcha. Thanks for your help.”
Annie pulled out the letters. “You’re about to earn your keep.”
He smiled. “Bring it on.”
She handed him one of the two letters and snuggled into the quilt while he read. She wasn’t going to tell him about the negative reader response. Shay was probably right. It was just the vocal few. She was sure her next column would fare better.
Dylan’s lips moved as he read. His top lip had a dip in the center, the lower one was pleasantly full. Nice, she had to admit. Of course, they’d probably touched the mouth of every available woman in the tri-state area.
Annie being the exception. And Sierra. She frowned suddenly, wondering if that was true. How was she to know what happened on those nights Sierra went out?
He handed her the letter. She jumped as thunder struck again, piercing the air, rattling the windowpane behind her.
His eyes danced in the lamplight. “Want me to come over there and keep you safe?”
Dylan keep her safe? “I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”
He settled back into the sofa and gave her a cocky grin. “Suit yourself.”
She held up the letter. “What’d you think?”
“Seems pretty simple. You should tell him to go for it.”
Of course that’s what he’d say. She sighed. She had to get these answers right. “What about their friendship?”
“A true friendship would weather the course.”
“If he brings his feelings out in the open, it would make things awkward. What if she doesn’t feel the same way?”
He shrugged. “What if she does, and she’s just waiting for him to make a move?”
“He says there’s no indication of feelings on her part.”
“Maybe he’s wrong. Anyway, what about honesty? You think this guy should hide his feelings?”
“Not hide them, just not wear them on his sleeve.”
“Same thing.”
“It is not the same thing. This is an eleven-year friendship; he can’t just throw it away all willy-nilly because he’s developed feelings. At the very least he should test the waters a bit.”
“And how’s he supposed to do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the expert!”
His lips curled upward and his brow hitched higher, meeting the lock of hair that had flopped over his forehead.
Great. She’d done it now.
“Why, Annie Wilkerson, I had no idea you held me in such high regard.”
Was this all just a joke to him? “Get over yourself, Taylor. I just think he should play it a little safe, that’s all.”
He stared at her, and there was something in his eyes that made her shift and look away.
“Safe, huh?”
She had the distinct feeling he was thinking of John Oakley.
“Yes, safe. It’s not a dirty word, you know. Nor is relationship or commitment, though you wouldn’t understand either of those.”
He shrugged. “I advised the guy to start the relationship, did I not?”
Maybe he did, but his own life contradicted his advice. He was confusing her and she didn’t like it. She took a sip of her coffee, realized she’d warmed up—more than she intended—and shrugged the quilt from her shoulders.
“Why don’t we move on to the next letter?”
He took the paper and read. This time she kept her eyes averted. Instead, she sipped the coffee and took a good look around the room. The furniture was old and worn. A plaid sofa with an afghan tossed over the back, hurricane lamps with golden globes and antique brass trim. It seemed more like an elderly person’s home than a confirmed bachelor’s.
“Okay.” He handed the letter back. “She needs to move on.”
Annie’s hopes sank to her toes. Could they agree on nothing? “Why do you say that?”
“They’ve dated almost three years, and he’s clearly not interested in marriage. She’s almost thirty—”
“Oh, and her biological clock is ticking, is that it?”
“I didn’t say that. Look, she’s not going to change his mind— why do women always think they can change their man?” He gave an exaggerated shrug as if they were talking about him.
Annie rubbed her temple. He was giving her a headache. “First letter you said drop the relationship, second one you said pursue the relationship, and now you’re saying this woman should drop it. You’re inconsistent.”
“If it were that cut-and-dried, they wouldn’t need help.”
She sighed. He was right about that. Was he right about all of it? Was she really this bad at matters of the heart?
Of course she was. She was going to have to ignore her poor instincts, swallow her pride, and follow his advice. He was the expert, like it or not.
“Okay, suppose you’re right. Let’s talk about what I should tell her.”
They spent twenty minutes chatting about the woman’s situation, then went back to the first letter and discussed it awhile. She watched him closely as he talked, sensing another layer beneath his flippant façade. His answers went deeper than she’d expected, delving into the subtext of the letters. He was surprising her again, and people rarely did that. The more he talked, the better she felt about his answer.
She watched him now, rubbing the back of his neck as he talked, the curls at his nape now dry. He had nice hands with squared fingers and thick palms, no doubt rough with calluses.
She thought back to Saturday when he’d had those hands on Marla Jenkins’s waist. There had been a brief moment, watching them move together, when Annie had regretted turning him down. He was a smooth dancer, after all, and John had been in the middle of a monologue on bilateral debt.
Okay, maybe John wasn’t all that intriguing. Maybe his kisses didn’t leave her weak-kneed. He was responsible and faithful and . . . lots of other good things.
If, when he’d kissed her good night, she’d imagined Dylan’s lips on hers for the tiniest little second, it was only a silly flight of fancy. Everyone had errant thoughts. Even so, when John had drawn away, her face had burned with shame.
She looked up at Dylan now, realizing he’d gone quiet. Realizing her face burned again from the memory of her errant thought. Curses on her Irish skin.
His lips turned up. “Something you wanna share with the class, Miss Wilkerson?”
“No, there is not.”
It was time to go, more than. The patter of rain grew louder as the storm picked up. But still, she began packing her things, because there was a more dangerous storm brewing inside.
“Stay awhile, sugar, I don’t bite.”
She seriously doubted that. “I have to get home.”
“It’s pouring out there. I’ll freshen your coffee.”
“That’s okay,” she called after him, but he had already left with her mug.
She heard the coffee carafe sliding from its cubby, the splash of liquid, and then he returned, handing her the mug.
“That was my grandpa’s favorite chair,” he said, nodding toward her seat before pl
opping on the sofa. “This used to be his place, you know.”
Annie sipped the coffee, torn between her need to leave and her reluctance to be rude.
“I remember. I was a senior when he passed, I think.”
“I forget you’re several years younger than me. You’re so. . .”
She crossed her arms, waiting. Stodgy? Old-spirited? Well, if he’d had the responsibilities she’d had, he wouldn’t be so— “Capable.”
She was sure it wasn’t the first word that came to mind, especially when his eyes danced in the lamplight.
She decided not to let him bait her. “Your grandpa was a good man. He got on well with my grandpa, I recall.”
“They were childhood friends.”
“They were?” How had she not known that? Then again, her grandfather hadn’t talked much about himself.
“You didn’t know?”
She shrugged. “Until Sierra and I came to live with him, we didn’t see him much. He and Mom didn’t get along.”
“That’s too bad. My grandparents were a big part of my childhood. Me and my brother came up here every summer, and we thought we were in heaven.”
“You have a brother?”
“Luke. He’s a few years younger.”
“You’re from Texas, like Wade. . .”
He nodded. “Why didn’t your mom and grandpa get along?”
She settled back into the chair, cupping her hands around the warm mug. “Too different, I guess. Mom didn’t make the best decisions—that was hard on my grandpa.”
“Tell me about your sister.”
“Sierra?” She gave a wry laugh. “What’s to tell? She pretty much lets it all hang out. She’s very much like our mother.”
He templed his hands on his chest and rested his chin on his fingertips. “You’re more like your dad?”
“I hope not. I guess I’m more like my grandpa.”
“You were close.”
“How can you tell?”
“Your voice changes when you say his name, softens. I’ll bet you were the apple of his eye.”
He was more perceptive than she’d given him credit for. “He took us in when Mom passed, without a second thought. He’s the reason I pursued horse training. He was a great vet, the best.”
The Trouble With Cowboys Page 6